Hunting the origins of “tantivy”

Dava Sobel’s book of popular astronomy The Planets reintroduced me to a word I’m fond of but rarely encounter, when she described Mercury’s “tantivy progress through space”.

Tantivy’s origins are uncertain, its functions manifold. As an adjective, it means “rapidly, at top speed, at full gallop”, this last gloss suggesting a possible etymology. It can also serve, or historically has done since around the 17th–18thC, as a noun, verb, adverb, and interjection (as a hunting cry).

The OED says tantivy is “probably imitative of the sound of galloping horses” – one of the more evocative etymologies I’ve read in a while – and that it was “later influenced by tantara” (a blast or fanfare on a trumpet or horn). Michael Quinion believes the hunting horn holds a more likely origin story.

When I first saw tantivy in print I assumed the stress fell on the first syllable, maybe because of a similar word I knew from childhood, rumpeta, used in The Elephant and the Bad Baby to suggest the sound of a running elephant (“And they went rumpeta, rumpeta, rumpeta, all down the road”). Tantivy, however, is stressed on the second syllable, according to most authorities: tan-tiv-y.

It is not a common word. There are no examples in COCA or GloWbE, or even in the British National Corpus; only a handful may be found in the Corpus of Historical American English, including:

the tantivy of wild pigeons, flying by two and threes athwart my view, or perching restless on the white pine boughs behind my house, gives a voice to the air (Henry David Thoreau, Walden, 1854)

Jack then placed himself on the opposite side of the pit, farthest from the giant’s lodging, and, just at the break of day, he put the horn to his mouth, and blew, Tantivy, Tantivy. This noise roused the giant… (Joseph Jacobs, English Fairy Tales, 1898)*

He then put his horn to his mouth, and blew such a loud and long tantivy, that the giant awoke and came towards Jack… (Martha Finley, Fairy Tales Every Child Should Know, 1905)

How does it come that a few short hours later we find him galloping tantivy over the dusty hills, no less than two hundred miles, as the birds fly, from the counter railing of welcomings? (Francis Lynde, Empire Builders, 1907)

The middle two are interesting to compare, since they tell the same story but use tantivy in different grammatical ways: as interjection and noun, respectively. It is interesting, too, that tantivy has two competing etymologies, one from hunting, one from horses (probably also hunting), both onomatopoeic. Now I just need an excuse to use it.

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[image of horse galloping by Eadweard Muybridge via Wikimedia Commons]

* Joseph Jacobs featured in an earlier post on folktale diffusion and ethnolinguistic variation.

Belief systems, which erode clarity

I’ve written before about a comma(,) which muddles meaning, and a comma with restrictive which. The first was in a newspaper editorial, the second in a de Maupassant translation; both were inserted seemingly because of an unfortunate belief in the bogus rule about that and which.

Here, inevitably, is another example, this one in bell hooks’ book All About Love:

Ultimately, though, the authors remained wedded to belief systems, which suggest that there are basic inherent differences between women and men.

The appearance after belief systems of a comma followed by which induces a pause and primes the reader to expect a relative clause about the consequences of remaining wedded to belief systems in general. But that’s not what happens.

First, uninflected suggest implies that the antecedent (what which refers to) is plural, i.e., belief systems, not the (singular) fact that certain authors remain wedded to them. Then the rest of the line shows that the writer is talking about specific belief systems.

So the relative clause is restrictive – the type of belief systems referred to is semantically restricted. Adding a comma makes it non-restrictive, which makes no sense here. I had to reread the sentence to parse it properly, this time ignoring the misleading comma.

Maybe the writer used which rather than that to avoid repeating that (“belief systems that suggest that”), though of course the second that is optional. Or maybe she just preferred which there. Either relative pronoun would have been fine. Adding a comma was not.

Again I’m inclined to think the comma was added by an editor who remains wedded to a belief system* which misinforms them about the grammaticality of which in restrictive clauses in all varieties of English.

Further reading: a discussion among editors on the that/which pseudo-rule. Or see the links above for more detailed discussion.

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* Note the complete lack of a comma here. Savour it.

A hovering dangling modifier

Dangling modifiers may seem pretty harmless, unlikely even to be noticed except by editors and eagle-eyed readers. But at their worst they can evoke images so silly or outlandish as to invite ridicule – or at least editorial protest.

Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary of English Usage calls danglers “a venial sin at most” and says they are “common, old, and well-established in English literature”. It offers examples from Shakespeare and Jane Austen, among others:

Link love: language (54)

Another month means another selection of language and book links, the latest batch including tiny libraries and great secrets, badgers and Moo Fields, jive and wiki. Something for everyone, I hope.

Slim Gaillard’s jive dictionary.

Preserving the Texas German dialect.

Favourite sentences.

The world’s tiniest library.

(Not counting Marc Giai-Miniet’s.)

On slipping a phrase into the language.

Throwing cold water on “ultraconserved words”.

Phonetic analysis of Marge Simpson’s disapproval-sound.

Watching badgers, not inhaling: 10 scandalous euphemisms.

Explaining the Latin jokes in Asterix (h/t LanguageHat).

Indian languages as a primer on historical linguistics.

The Pig Latins of 11 other languages.

Wiki: a word’s journey.

“Vegetarian-fed.”

What can we learn from children’s writing?

The role of editors in codifying Standard English.

“Because I say so!” The trouble with Gwynne’s grammar.

Cunning Geo, Moo Field: amazing place names of Orkney and Shetland.

How learning a foreign language reignites the imagination.

N.K.Y.S.A. (Nobody knows your stupid acronym.)

On descriptivism and grammaticality.

Why do we say Yeah, no?

All the headlines from The Simpsons.

“Herein lies the great secret: Thought is made in the mouth.” (A Dada manifesto by Tristan Tzara.)

[language link archives]

Grammatic innovation, dramatic pronunciation

At Macmillan Dictionary Blog I have a couple of new posts to report. First up, LOL slash grammar, knowmsayin? looks at recent innovations in how people use LOL and slash, among other terms:

Sometimes . . . existing words get repurposed, switching grammatical classes or incorporating new ones: verbs and adjectives are converted into nouns, and vice versa. This attracts predictable criticism, but it’s a thoroughly ordinary process; nounings and verbings are a large part of the everyday formation of new usages.

Other switches are more unusual.

Linguist John McWhorter has noted that the phrase (Do) you know what I’m saying? is not usually the question it might superficially seem to be,

but rather is “a piece of grammar, soliciting the same sense of empathy and group membership that LOL does”. Given its frequent informal use, the phrase is often compressed into a syllable or two for efficiency. If you search Twitter for nomsayin or knowmsayin, you’ll see how common this is.

I offer a brief synopsis of the broader implications for language (hint: harmless; positive), then the comments extend the discussion: OMG is cited as showing similar semantic drift to LOL, while dot dot dot and full stop are further examples of verbalised punctuation.

You can read the rest here.

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I now pronounce you … Wait, how do I pronounce you? steps back from the recent pavlova palaver over the pronunciation of GIF, to look at other examples of phonological confusion and controversy – and do we place the stress on that word’s first or second syllable?

Macmillan Dictionary includes both pronunciations, and indeed the two forms are legitimate. This point is sometimes missed: people assume there can be just one right way, when in fact there is often more than one. Geography and register may be factors in whether a particular pronunciation of a word is perceived to be correct or appropriate.

A recent humorous article in the Irish Times commented on the social and religious aspects of pronouncing aitch in Northern Ireland. It prompted a flurry of letters on the subject, several of them condemning the proliferation of h-sounds in places the writers considered wrong – including the name of the letter itself.

Since I began with an anecdote from my school days, readers have joined in by sharing stories of pronunciation-related embarrassment and epiphanies (and, included in the post, one of violence). Feel free to add your own.

The sense of things improper

Alison Dye’s novel The Sense of Things (1994) has a conversation between the narrator, Joanie, and her friend-to-be, Jesus, in which Jesus nervously corrects himself twice in an effort to speak more properly.

Joanie has gone to Jesus to order new flooring for the shop she works in, and Jesus is explaining the sheet approach to her:

‘Installation is slightly easier with the sheeting and therefore cuts down on your labour costs. We would unroll it and cut as we go, from the wall out. However, with a sheet you are stuck with the one colour or print except for the borders which you can be a little creative with, if you like. I mean, with which.’ He coughed.

New language blog: Caxton

Caxton is a new blog about language from Barrie England, an Oxford graduate who has studied English literature, foreign languages, and older varieties of English. It is named after printing pioneer William Caxton, who, as Barrie writes, “by using technology to reach a wider public . . . can be seen as the progenitor of the digital age”.

Barrie wrote Real Grammar before its host pulled the plug; I’ve linked to it here in the past, most recently to his post on the rise of Swiss German dialect. Some of you may also know him from his insightful comments at Sentence first.

Since setting up Caxton and importing his old posts, Barrie has been blogging regularly, offering astute and balanced observations on such subjects as the value of linguistics, the early shapers of English, education, reflexive pronouns, dialects, grammar, and Jacques Brel. Rummage around and you’ll find all sorts of good material.

If you’re interested in the usage, history, politics, and beauty of English – or language generally – I recommend visiting and bookmarking Caxton. I’ve also added it to the links in the sidebar of this blog.

Updates: More thoughts on Caxton: Language Hat wishes it a “long and prosperous career”, while You Don’t Say celebrates “a new voice of sense and informed judgment”.